Page 24 of Goose

7

Goose

Dressed in Khaki pants and a crisp powder blue button-down shirt, the physically fit man standing on my front porch was either a cop, an insurance salesman, or a spokesperson for a health and wellness company. Hoping to put my foot against an insurance salesman’s ass, I opened the front door a few inches and prepared to send him on his way.

A quick scan of his person revealed a Sig Sauer .40 caliber pistol holstered to his hip. I swallowed against the taste of regret as it rose in my throat. “Evening, officer.”

“Detective,” he snapped back. “Detective Barnes.”

“I didn’t know there was a difference.” My mouth twisted into a half-assed smirk. “What can I do for you, detective?”

He nodded beyond me, toward the living room. “Mind if I come in?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said dryly. “I do.”

I peered toward his unmarked car, which was parked at the curb. The additional antennas, downgraded wheels, and muted bronze color glistening in the evening sun forewarned any savvy would-be criminals that a cop was in their midst. He—and his car—were as inconspicuous as a cock on a wedding cake.

“Do you need directions, or something?” I asked. “You get off the freeway and get twisted around? It’s easy with all the cul-de-sacs around here huh?”

He leaned back and looked at my house number. “Six forty-eight. I’m at the right place.” He gave me a quick look over. “You’re Gordon Pearce, right? Bank robber? Thief? Self-proclaimed weapons expert? Murderer?”

My asshole puckered tight. My face flashed hot. I struggled to maintain my nonchalant stance.

“Think you’ve got the wrong Gordon Pearce,” I said, the words nearly getting tangled in my throat. “I’m an amateur chef. I like planting flowers. I manage carwashes. I murdered a mosquito once. It was in Louisiana, though. I’m guessing that’s out of your jurisdiction.”

He looked me over. “You ought to do stand-up comedy.”

“You ought to go find a real criminal to fuck with, officer. Like I said, you’ve got the wrong Gordon Pearce.”

“I’m a detective,” he huffed. “And, I’ve got the right man, asshole. I need to ask you a few questions about an investigator that’s gone missing. He started nosing around you and your cohorts and just up and fucking vanished. Sound familiar?” He grinned a smug little grin. “We can either do it here, or at the station. I’ll let you pick.”

To convey innocence, I needed to maintain my jovial attitude and appearance. I started to give a smart-assed response. Before I got out my first word, he continued.

“If you choose to go to the station, you’re going in cuffs.” He smirked. “Just thought I’d clarify that.”

I wasn’t going anywhere in cuffs. The .22 caliber silenced Walther tucked into the small of my back at my waistband would make sure of that. I opened the door enough to lead him to believe I was going to offer him inside. Then, I offered him a smile and my departing remarks, instead.

“I’m sorry, detective,” I said in a mock apologetic tone. “This is where I exercise my right to have an attorney present before answering any questions.”

His eyebrows raised. “Are you sure that’s the position you want to take?”

“Are you sure you want to continue to pry and prod after I told you I didn’t want to talk to you?” I pointed toward the infrared camera centered in the door’s frame. “You’re being recorded, officer.”

He glanced at the camera. “When I come back, it’ll be with a warrant.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I said with a smile. “Call in advance, and I’ll have some fresh donuts ready. I make my own dough. They’re dripping with grease and fattening as hell. I double dip ‘em in sugar, too. You’ll love ‘em. All my cop friends do.”

“Fuck you, Pearce,” he said through his teeth. “I will be back.”

“Don’t forget that warrant,” I said, closing the door as I spoke. “Without it, I might mistake you for an intruder. We know how that ends, now don’t we?”

“Are you threatening me?” he asked.

I closed the door and turned the deadbolt.

I didn’t make threats. If he showed up without a warrant, he’d be the first to find out.

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